


The Story of a Person Told Through Funerals

by alittleshitwithfeels



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bigender Count Dooku, Canonical Character Death, Dooku and Jenza getting to be siblings, Fix-It of Sorts, Funerals, Gen, Gray Jedi Dooku, likewise there is mentions and hints of violence but nothing explicit, mention of past child endangerment, mentions of scars, reference to Rako Hardeen arc, while characters do die none of the deaths are explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 10:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20113831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittleshitwithfeels/pseuds/alittleshitwithfeels
Summary: The first funeral Dooku ever attends is that of his own mother.A summary of Count Dooku's life as told through funerals that he's attended.





	1. The Story

**Author's Note:**

> As a note, much of the information I talk about regarding Dooku's family and the events prior to his leaving the Jedi Order are purely referenced from his canon Wookiepedia article and I have not actually read any of the material related to that, so events may not be written here as they were written there. This whole work is a canon divergent AU anyway and written primarily based on the canon I have for Dooku on my rp blog acemenagerie, so I hope you can forgive the discrepancies.
> 
> Dooku's pronouns switch between he/him/his and xe/xem/xyrs between sections, though they remain consistent within each section.

The first funeral Dooku ever attends is that of his own mother. 

His padawan braid is still hanging behind his ear and he’s hidden in the crowd between Sifo-Dyas and Master Kostana. It’s odd to be here, he thinks as Jenza searches the crowd for his face and smiles before their father can catch her. There are many reasons he shouldn’t be: the largest perhaps being that he is a Jedi padawan and Jedi aren’t supposed to have these sorts of familial attachments. He shouldn’t have been communicating with his sister; in truth, he shouldn’t have ever learned of his family at all.

He supposes the second reason he shouldn’t be here is because, for how much Jenza and him have talked, he doesn’t actually feel much of a connection to his mother. The loss touches his soul from a remote place, probably the same way it’s touching Sifo-Dyas and Master Kostana. _There is no death, there is only the Force, _echoes in his head_._ So maybe it isn’t touching them at all. But the loss of life is nothing to ignore and Jedi are supposed to be compassionate, are supposed to understand the grief around them, right? If he is honest with himself, he’s not sure he understands the Code sometimes. Either way, he’d likely find it easier to call her Countess Anya than mother, not like it really matters now.

His gaze drifts from the ornate casket up to where his father - Count Gora - sits, face unreadable. He may have been young at the time, but it’s hard to forget someone telling off _Grand Master Yoda_ and yelling that he never wanted to hear his own offspring’s name again. That’s why Dooku is tucked where he is and not sitting with his sister and brother. He remembers Jenza expressing regret when he told her that was his plan, but he’ll likely never know how Ramil feels about his existence in general, let alone about his presence at their mother’s funeral.

Jenza stands to give a few words on her mother’s behalf, a breeze gently teasing the veil over her eyes. He feels Sifo-Dyas tense next to him and comes out of his own thoughts to notice that the mood of the crowd is not one of somber contemplation, grief, or even simply silent respect. An unease permeates the air and thrums like the moments before a thunderstorm.

Thunder rumbles in the form of agitated shuffling and clenching fists. He sees someone grumble something to their neighbor.

In the span of a blink, everything goes to hell.

The crowd surges and screams. Rocks are hurled toward the stage. Guards rush but are overwhelmed by the tide.

Without thinking, Dooku rushes toward the stage, dodging the rioting crowd and guards alike with ease. Count Gora has not moved and is screaming back at the crowd while Jenza tries desperately to pull him away. Dooku hops onto the stage just in time for another large projectile to land a solid hit on the casket and knock it off its pedestal, catching Gora’s attention. First, his gaze snaps to the desecration of his wife’s corpse, but on the way, it passes over Dooku. In a double take, Gora’s eyes lock onto his, a snarl contorting his features.

When Dooku was a youngling all those years ago, Count Gora had been intimidating as he yelled at Master Yoda. Of course, Dooku had known Master Yoda was not in any actual danger but, then again, Gora had never been in any danger either. Yoda would never unnecessarily raise his hand against anyone. Dooku remembers finding out that he’d been left at the edge of the woods as an infant – a race between the Jedi and the spine-wolves. It occurs to him that Count Gora has only gotten this far by specifically picking battles with those who would never fight back.

Count Gora stalks forward and Dooku wonders how well he’d fare if his target _did_ return the favor. _There is no emotion, there is peace._

When Gora grabs his collar in both hands and hurls him back, the word ‘Freak!’ on his lips, Dooku doesn’t do anything.

Cold anger still grips his insides, but he feels Master Kostana set a hand on his arm.

“Come on, padawan, it’s time to go.”

* * *

There is a funeral he does not attend, though he hears about it on the HoloNet.

Something he has no name for unclenches in his chest.

“Count Gora of Serenno has, regrettably, passed away early last night.”

* * *

People die in the interim, but none of their funerals hit him beyond that remote, almost performative, sympathy. He grows, learns, and sheds his padawan braid. He takes two padawans of his own. Time wears on.

There is no funeral for the death of his faith in the Republic and Jedi Order.

* * *

Dooku stands beside Jenza and realizes that they’re all the family the other has left now. He feels some measure of regret on her behalf; she had been far closer to their family than he could have ever dreamed of and he knows he will never be able to offer her that sort of connection again. The years of sneakily sharing the happenings of their daily lives are far, far behind them. He doesn’t resent love or familial connection, not like his peers in the Order, but he doesn’t think he is capable of such emotional connections anymore.

He wishes he could tell her that he’s sorry that he’s the sibling she is left with, but he doesn’t want her to pity him in response.

“Are you certain that you don’t wish to be Countess? The people would accept you far easier than they’d accept me. You are the next in line.”

Perhaps it is tactless to discuss such things over their brother’s casket, but there are no grand speeches to be said, no words of parting left. He thinks Jenza had grieved the loss of Ramil long before he’d been struck down.

Jenza sighs, tucking an errant strand of snow-white hair behind her ear, and then turns to smile at him. The lines in her face are worn deep and fatigue radiates off of her. “I’ve never wanted to be Countess less in my kriffing life, my dear sibling.”

He wants to laugh at the frank vulgarity but instead he keeps his gaze on the casket and feels the weight of a decision on his shoulders. He sees no grand visions of the future, no twisting paths through either choice, but the Force still seems to impress upon him the importance of his next actions.

Jenza frowns at his silence and sets a hand on his arm. For a moment, he remembers Master Kostana laying her hand on him the exact same way at his mother’s funeral. In a way, Jenza is giving him the same choice that Kostana had.

“I know you have a loyalty to the Order. I’m sorry for pushing my own duty onto you; go back to Coruscant and I will take the mantle of Countess of Serenno.”

_Come on, padawan, it’s time to go._

“No.” Dooku turns to her as something in the Force seems to snap into place. “I will become Count.”

“But what about the Order?”

“You deserve to make your own choices and so do I.”

* * *

The first time xe steps back into the Jedi Temple on Coruscant after leaving the Order, it is for Sifo-Dyas’s funeral. 

Dooku does appreciate them for having the courtesy to tell xem that xyr long-time friend has become one with the Force, but the funeral leaves something to be desired. Maybe xe’s just been to too many funerals and feels the hate of them deep in the pits of xyr soul. There’s no body to burn, no clues as to what happened.

The thoughts of who could have done this and why swirl silently in the air.

Dooku idly traces the lightning scars on xyr hands. Someone is playing a game of chess with the Galaxy and they are already many turns behind. With a curt nod to xyr old master, xe turns and leaves the temple.

* * *

There is another funeral not long after.

There is no breeze, so the smoke rises straight up and the embers dancing within it make it almost indistinguishable from the night sky. Something in Dooku’s chest wrenches, making xyr almost feel sick, but xe’d be hard-pressed to put a name to the emotion. Is it grief? It must be; no master wants to outlive their padawan. That doesn’t sit quite right, though. Is it some form of guilt? What does xe have to feel guilty for? Xe had stopped being responsible for Qui-Gon’s wellbeing many years ago.

Xe remembers lightning channeled at xyr fingertips for the purpose of saving his hide.

No one is crying. No one is even trying to fight back tears. Xe supposes that’s what one gets with a Jedi funeral. Somber but tearless. Almost performative.

Well, once xe pulls xyrself out of xyr thoughts, xe realizes that’s not true. There is a young boy who seems lost and distressed in equal measure and beside him a young Jedi whose face is as purposefully unreadable as everyone else’s, but emotions similar to Dooku’s own pour off of him in waves.

Xe carefully picks xyr way over after forcing xyr gaze from the pyre. Of course, there is a small flaw in this approach: while xe had felt a distinct pull over here, xe has never been adept at emotional comfort and knowing what to say in these situations.

The younger of the pair notices xem first. “Um… hello…? Who are you?”

Well that certainly helps; introductions are incredibly easy. “I am Count Dooku, Qui-Gon’s former master.”

The boy’s eyes go wide and the introduction startles the young Jedi out of his thoughts. “M-Master Dooku! My apologies, I didn’t-!”

Xe holds up a hand, amusement tempered by the setting. “Count will suffice; I’ve not been a Jedi in many years. Would you happen to be Qui-Gon’s apprentice?”

The young man nods. “Yes, master, I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Xe decides to let the address slide this time; there is no need to force Kenobi into more discomfort than he already must be feeling. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Kenobi. I only wish we had met under more pleasant circumstances.”

Is that what xe’s feeling? Regret?

Regret for not speaking to Qui-Gon more? Regret for not meeting xyr grandpadawan sooner? Regret for what could have been?

The pyre does not give any answers.

* * *

_Gravel bites into his knees through his thin, ratty pants. Binders rest heavy around his wrists. A hand fists itself into his hair, forcing his gaze up from the ground. _

_Jenza stands on a stage, hair framing her face in limp ringlets. Still, she has her chin up, a smile teasing her lips, despite the blaster pressed to her temple. Parts of the gathered crowd surge and scream with delight, others are deadly silent as horror dawns upon them._

The sound of a blaster echoes.

Dooku’s eyes snap open, lightsaber drawn and ignited before all that’s happening even registers. As he darts through the halls searching for his sister, he remembers long ago what Master Yoda had told Sifo-Dyas: Force visions are only images of what _could_ be. However, while he agrees that they are just possibilities, he firmly believes that one must act to either force them into reality or to, as he’s doing now, banish them from happening entirely.

A blaster bolt arcs wide into the wall behind him and he rounds on the attacker ( attacker_s_ as it turns out ), the cold white blade of his lightsaber humming a threat.

He will not have his sister’s funeral be her execution.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Master Dooku.”

Dooku notes how deliberate the title choice is; Obi-Wan is trying to avoid inadvertently rubbing salt into his wounds as they jump into hyperspace away from Serenno. He isn’t the Count of Serenno anymore; some spineless puppet is wearing that title now. The thought makes his insides boil.

He takes in a breath and lets it out. “There is no need to apologize, Kenobi.” He looks to Jenza, who is having a wound dressed with a bacta patch. “House Serenno has not fallen and Serenno will survive.”

This is not the funeral of his home.

* * *

Many years ago, xe thought xyr faith in the Republic had died; xe had been wrong. Deep down, xe always believed that it could be fixed with enough care and attention – if enough people grew wise and had the means, then things could get better.

No, xe had held faith in the Republic.

However, now, in the Senate’s Chambers, without a title and without a planet to call xyr own, xe feels xyr faith die.

“Certainly, Serenno’s secession is… regrettable, but what would be the point in chasing after it? Even as far back as Count Gora’s reign, they have done little for the Republic.”

“A coup is an internal matter; I do not recall voting on whether the Jedi should intervene and risk a galactic civil war just to save a dethroned Count.”

Xyr fingers idly trace the scars on xyr hands, white-hot fury boiling deep in xyr gut. Chancellor Palpatine’s gaze sweeps over the crowd of senators, briefly meeting Dooku’s own for just a moment. Xe doesn’t know what, if anything, is actually carried in that moment of eye-contact, but xe automatically sets xyr jaw anyway.

“My apologies, Count Dooku and Lady Jenza,” Senator Amidala says as she approaches afterward. Jenza bows her head and smiles, though the expression is tight and laced with barely contained fury. The Republic has continually failed Serenno and no remote apology will change that.

“Serenno will survive,” Dooku replies coolly.

“We’ll see if the Republic will,” Jenza finishes.

* * *

_They were too young_, Dooku thinks as he carries a muddy corpse back into the small encampment. The person’s father rushes away from a small fire and Dooku passes the body over. The funeral begins with a father’s wail.

Traditional Serennian ballads of mourning are sung and the few priests that have permanently come to aid them say prayers over the body. There have been many funerals and there will be many more, but they refuse to become numb to it. If they must translate grief into a passion to not let any more of their own die, then they will. Serenno does not belong to Separatist usurpers and Sith puppeteers.

Jenza knights the body with her vibrorapier and Dooku can see the exhaustion written on her face even through the veil. “Sir Bela of House Inoda, we all thank you for your service done in Serenno’s name. May your journey into the afterlife be a peaceful one.”

She steps back and Dooku ignites his saber. They give a each other a salute before walking off together as the mourning continues.

When they enter a small hut, Jenza turns to him, pressing her forehead against his. “Might I be frank with you?”

“Of course.”

Her shoulders instantly slump under a great, unseen weight and he has to bend a little to keep their foreheads together.

“I am so kriffing tired, Dooku.”

He hums, taking her hand in his own. He remembers when her hands were soft and almost delicate - now they are worn and calloused in much the same way as his. He wonders if, after this civil war is done, House Serenno will become known for wielding blades with curved hilts.

“I know, dear sister.”

She grimaces. “Are you not? Does the Force keep you going?”

“The hope of seeing Serenno at peace once more and ruled by someone who cares for their people is what keeps me going.”

“… Do you think we’ll win?”

“I know we will.”

* * *

_“We know that you are busy stabilizing Serenno, but we would be remiss to not inform you of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s passing, Count.”_

As Dooku stands in the chambers, beside the sobbing Duchess of Mandalore with a closed cremation chamber before him, he gets the distinct feeling that the Jedi hadn’t expected him to show up. He thinks they’ve forgotten that he was the same padawan who demanded to go to the funeral of a mother he had never met.

Of _course_ he would attend the funeral of his grandpadawan; Jenza can handle the rebuilding efforts for right now.

A beam shoots into the air and he carefully observes the other funeral attendees. There are stories here that he does not know, threads all connecting to a man that is now dead and gone. Emotions run high, but he purposefully avoids trying to feel the ebb and flow of them; it’s best to give others some privacy and he’d rather have feelings that are all his own.

When he is informed not long after that Obi-Wan had simply faked his death at the behest of the Jedi Council, Dooku wonders if the Council has lost its kriffing mind.

* * *

There is no funeral held when Chancellor Palpatine – more properly, Darth Sidious – is killed; he is not one worthy of that respect. Instead, there is a celebration. A Sith Lord is dead, and peace is finally possible without him.

Possible is the key word, Dooku thinks while nursing a whiskey away from the bulk of the festivities, the Separatist Movement had not been built solely on lies. And, if he is being honest with himself, he is not sure if he’s eager to bring Serenno back into the folds of the Republic.

With negotiations, though, the Republic may be forced to change how it operates and, with any luck, those changes will be for the good of the whole galaxy.

Many times, he had been certain his faith in the Republic had died.

It appears that he has always been wrong.

The thought makes him smile into his drink.

* * *

“Does this mean I can finally hang up this vibrorapier? A person of my age should not be swinging around swords.” Jenza asks him later, a genuine, relaxed, smile on her face for the first time in a very long time. She even reaches up to pinch his cheek. “But, don’t be embarrassed, it’s fine for a young one like you.”

“You are not _that_ much older than me, Jenza,” Dooku teases back, swatting her hand away. “And so far, you’ve been the one person that I’ve trained that is actually a delight to spar with.”

“That just means you need more friends.” A twinkle enters her eye. “But perhaps one last spar before I hang this up for good.”

* * *

The last funeral Dooku ever attends is his own.

Admittedly, only his body is present; his consciousness is already one with the Force. But funerals are not for the dead so much as they are for the living. Still, if he could see it, he would think that it is a very nice service.

The whole of Serenno quietly mourns and, unlike the first funeral he ever attended, no protest erupts, and the coffin stays put until it is ritually burned. On Monterro, a separate mausoleum is constructed in his and Lady Jenza’s honor. Beings across the galaxy both lament the loss as well as laud the accomplishments he had in life.

However, time wears on.

Thoughts turn to new things.

New generations step into the galaxy.

Events fall out of living memory and land in history books, details glossed over and stories twisted and edited to create a narrative.

Life moves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mean to turn this into a low-key exploration of Dooku & Jenza's developing sibling relationship after they reunited after not being in contact for literal decades? No. Am I glad it happened that way? Yes. Is using a vibrorapier impractical for where I implied Jenza learning the skill? Possibly.


	2. Epilogue

There are Jedi who feel unsatisfied in the Order; there always have been and there always will be. Those brave enough make secret pilgrimages to the moon orbiting Serenno. The journey is not hard, all things considered. No trials plague the journey, only a calm sort of clarity. Some lost Jedi find themselves in this leg alone and they thank the moon and the Force and return to their respective temples to put what they’ve learned into action.

Others press forward and find a sizable mausoleum. Before the entrance are two large statues facing each other. One is of a human holding a curved-hilt lightsaber as if in the start of a Makashi salute. The other is of a woman with a soft, warm smile and she, too, holds a blade before her but, instead of a lightsaber, she holds a curved-hilt vibrorapier.

The doors are always open when someone – Jedi or not – is lost.

It is said that if a lost Jedi meditates there, then they will find clarity within themselves and will understand what they want from their life. There is no destiny in this place, no expectations, no demands of what one must be. There is only choice.

Some Jedi remain with the Order.

Others choose to walk away, but they always do so with a smile.

And everyone who enters the mausoleum lost always walks out with a keen sense of hope that will never die.


End file.
